


without a fight

by suzukiblu



Series: read the inscription [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort Food, Cultural Differences, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Panic Attacks, Refugees, accidental injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 04:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Doing things is all Song can ever do. It’s the only thing that helps.





	without a fight

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of an old fic. A continuation requested by the winner of my help_haiti auction, arrayepl. Mildly stressful to write, since I got 1300 words into the thing, realized it wasn’t going to work, and had to start over from scratch. Annnnnd then the original ending turned out not to work either, and I nearly had to throw out _another_ 1300 words before I managed to save it. 
> 
> Of course, saving it meant the story grew by 3500 words. 
> 
> So yes, for the record? WORD COUNTS, THEY ARE TRICKY.

Song barely gets the boy back to the apartment. It takes everything she thought she had and even more than that, and then just a little more still, but she does it. 

Mother isn’t home yet. 

Song bursts into tears. 

Then she gets back to work. 

She unrolls her futon and drags the boy onto it, stripping him out of his filthy clothes because they can’t be anything but a risk for worse infections, and she fills the big soup pot with water from the well and throws his clothes in to boil and fills the small soup pot with water from the well and boils _that_ too, because Mother will need it. Through all of it the boy is motionless; he does not stir even when Song accidentally drops the pots on the floor. 

She doesn’t know what to do. 

_Wait for Mother,_ her mind says, but her instincts say, _HELP him._

So she does. 

Song lances the infected parts of the burn, draining them of the poisonous pus inside, and tends to the scrapes and cuts and bruises that cover the boy’s body, and cleans him up as best she can. She cuts away the bits of long hair that keep sticking against the burn and have healed into it in some places, and washes the rest of it the best she can--although that’s not so “because” because of the snarls and matted tangles and filth and dried blood all caked into it. It’s a mess, and a hopeless one, but again she does the best she can and is careful to avoid the burn, and washes his body the best she can too. 

The best she can without blushing, anyway. 

Song’s mother is a healer, and Song will be too someday. It’s just, well, she hasn’t really gotten to the part of her training that tells her the right way to wash naked boys just yet. Especially not naked boys her own _age_. 

She’s never had a patient her own age before at all. 

She knows what else she needs to do for the burn, but she can’t bring herself to touch it. 

Can’t bring herself to hurt him. 

Song scrubs at the boy’s clothes until she finally figures out there’s no hope and just wrings them out and tosses them into the furnace to smolder wetly. There’s a knife inside his belt, which she saves and tucks away up high in the kitchen--it’s a little grimy and a little dirty, but it’s in one piece and the blade’s dull, but not nicked or rusted _(“made in the Earth Kingdom”, it says)_ \--but otherwise he doesn’t have a thing but those awful brown rags. Which makes her sorry for burning them, a little, but they really are awful. 

She has to beg at six apartments, but eventually Song finds a family who’ll lend her a spare robe—much too big for the boy and certainly not enough for him to actually _go_ anywhere in, but it’s something, at least. She can’t really dress him properly herself, so she just makes sure he’s tucked in as well as can be and leaves the robe folded up beside him for when he wakes up. 

And still can’t bring herself to touch the burn. 

Mother still isn’t home. She’s working late again, Song’s sure, and might not be home for hours and hours yet. 

She cries again, and then she gets back to work. She mixes up the strongest painkillers and sleeping draughts Mother’s taught her and lifts the boy’s head and tries to coax him to swallow them, but he doesn’t stir. Song cries a little more, and keeps trying. Finally, finally, _finally_ , he swallows. Unconsciously more than anything and without even waking up, but that’s better, she thinks. 

She waits until she’s sure they’re affecting him, and then she cuts the dead, rotting flesh off his face in strips. 

There’s . . . there’s a lot of it. 

Song closes her eyes, just for a moment, and then steels herself and salves the raw and bleeding burn and resists the desperate desire to immediately bandage it, to hide it away. A little time to breathe, she promises herself, and then she can. Just a little time. Oh _spirits_ —

She vomits. She cries. 

And then she gets back to work. 

Throughout it all, she barely thinks about the pain in her leg. It doesn’t even matter, that pain, it’s just a ghost, a bad dream—nothing at all, next to the sight of someone _else_ in pain. 

Even if he’s not conscious for it. 

Song’s hands tremble, and she laces her fingers together tight, tight, _tight_ , tight enough to hold in anything. 

She hopes. 

The boy doesn’t wake up, at least. She holds onto that, the fact that he doesn’t wake up. 

It’s good, that he doesn’t wake up. 

Soon enough he will, after all. Soon enough he’ll have to suffer again, anew and even more. 

So it’s good that he hasn’t woken up. 

And it’ll be better when Mother’s here. Mother can help. Mother knows better medicines, Mother has stronger hands, _steadier_ hands—Mother _is_ stronger and steadier and Mother will know what to do. Mother will make it better. Mother will . . . Mother will . . . 

Mother. 

Song cries again, because there’s no “better”. She _knows_ there’s no better, she lives with these wounds day in and day out and it’s such a long, long way to any kind of “better”--

She just _wants_ Mother. Isn’t Mother meant for this? Shouldn’t it _be_ Mother, doing this? 

But it’s not, because Mother isn’t here, and Song is. 

So she gets back to work. She lays a cold cloth on the boy’s fevered forehead and tucks the blankets in as neat and tight as she can and hopes, hopes, hopes with all she _has_ and, more importantly, does all that she can _do_. Hope wasn’t enough to keep the war away; running was all they could do. 

Doing things is all Song can ever do. It’s the only thing that helps. 

Or at least, it’s the only thing that makes Song _feel_ like she’s helping. 

The boy doesn’t wake up. Mother doesn’t come home. Song does the best she can do, and a little more than that, and it’s as close to “enough” as anything’s going to get. 

As close to “better”. 

When she runs out of things to do, the exhaustion hits. Song lets her eyes close, just for a moment, and passes out next to the boy, half-on the futon but mostly not. She dreams of fire in a strange way, a way she never has before, and she dreams of things that make even less sense than that—tall golden doors and heavy red curtains and sinuous blue and red serpents with long teeth and leathery wings. 

Dragons. 

Song sleeps deeper than she has in weeks and months, maybe deeper than she ever has in her _life_ , and still wakes at the first slight stirring from the boy. 

She does not feel like she just had a nightmare. 

“Are you awake?” she asks softly, tiredly, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, and the boy shifts but doesn’t answer. The lantern burned out at some point, and Song moves to relight it—the flame _flares_ when she does, and she barely jerks her hand back fast enough to save herself from scorched fingers. _“Ah!”_

The boy jerks upright, sharp and sudden as that flame. 

“Who are you?!” he demands angrily, voice hoarse from more than just a night’s disuse and body language tense and defensive. Song raises her hands warily and tries to find the place of fearless serenity her mother taught her to speak from when dealing with a hostile patient. 

It’s hard to find. 

“My name’s Song,” she manages anyway. “I’m—you were hurt. Do you remember? I found you in the—in the alley.” 

He glares at her. 

Song’s never been glared at by a patient before. It’s _scary_. 

But he’s white-faced and shaking, and that’s worse. 

“You should lie back down,” Song says, not quite touching him. “Your head—you might pass out, I mean.” 

“Who _are_ you?” he hisses, glaring at her through his good eye. The other one’s—it’s—it’s healed shut, Song thinks. Hopes, maybe. But even if it’s just that, is there even any way to get that festering, healing, scarring skin out of the way? 

She doesn’t want to think about that. She really doesn’t. It’s . . . it’s bad. 

“My name’s Song,” she says again. “It’s—it’s okay, my mom’s a healer. She’ll be home soon, she can help.” 

“I _don’t_ need a healer,” the boy snarls, leaning forward, and then hissing again in surprise as his blanket falls down and yanking it up his chest. “Where are my _clothes_?!” 

“. . . I burned them,” Song says lamely. The boy stares at her. She snatches up the robe, fast, and holds it up to him. “I borrowed this. Um. From the neighbors. For you.” 

“You burned my _clothes_ ,” the boys says, not taking it. For a second, he looks almost wounded, and Song thinks-- _even if they were horrible and disgusting and WRECKED, they were all he had._

And then she remembers they weren’t, and drops the robe and bolts back to the kitchen and gets the knife down and brings it back to him. 

“I saved this,” she says. The boy snatches it from her so fast she nearly squeaks in shock, clutching it to his chest with more concern than he had for keeping himself covered. Has, in fact. The blanket slips, and Song looks away quick, blushing in embarrassment. Except he looks so hurt and so relieved, it’s hard to be. 

All she really wants is to help him. To make it better. 

And a leg without pain or scars. 

And her father. 

She wants her father, too. 

But the boy is awake, and she’ll make that be enough. 

“What’s your name?” Song asks. The boy stares at her again, that wounded look flashing back across his face like a ghost, and then he turns away in silence, gripping the knife even tighter and hiding the scar. He’s . . . he’s cute with it hidden, although Song feels bad thinking that. She remembers before, when he said he didn’t _have_ a name, and doesn’t know what to think. Everyone has a name, don’t they? Everyone _has_ to. What would people call you, if you didn’t have a name? 

. . . do people call you anything, when you’re sick and hurt and starving and all alone? 

“Can I call you something?” she asks softly, touching the blankets beside his knee. The boy stiffens and jerks his head back towards her, eye sharp and angryhurt again, and she flinches without meaning to. 

She could say “sorry”, but she doesn’t. Some things . . . 

There are just things too sad to say “sorry” for. 

“How about Lee,” Song suggests quietly. “Or Tohru? Or Huan? Those are good names.” 

“I don’t _have_ a name,” the boy hisses, baring his teeth and _glaring_ at her. “I won’t—I wouldn’t take some _fake_ one.” 

“But you need—” 

“Lying is _dishonorable_!” the boy snaps. And then looks stricken, suddenly, and collapses in on himself, even his white-knuckled fingers going lax around the handle of the knife. 

“. . . okay,” Song says quietly, just looking at him. 

She doesn’t think of a name to call him. 

“Does anything hurt?” she asks. 

“No,” the boy says, although Song’s sure that’s a lie. He’s grimacing, tense all over and breathing too shallowly. Besides that, even her best draughts would’ve weakened by now, and they wouldn’t have been that effective to begin with. It’s a miracle they kept him under long enough for her to take care of his burn. 

A wonderful, merciful miracle. 

“Are you hungry?” she asks instead, and the boy stiffens. 

“No,” he says again, which Song is quickly learning means “yes”. 

“I have to make dinner,” she says. “My mother will be home soon. And then she can help you.” 

“I don’t need _pity_ ,” the boy says, jerking his head away again, hiding the scar again. Song makes a decision. 

“It’s not pity,” she says, getting to her feet. “You’re going to earn it.” 

The boy blinks. 

“What?”

“You’re going to earn it,” Song repeats. She dusts off her hanbok and picks up the robe and holds it out to him, and the boy stares at her for a long, long moment. 

He takes it. 

Song goes over to the stove and empties the big pot and washes it out and then digs out the potatochokes and onion-carrots and the last of the pig-cow meat, because the boy is so skinny and tired and weak-looking and if anyone’s _ever_ needed a hearty meal . . . 

So she digs out the last of the meat, and twice as many potatochokes as she’d use if it were just her and Mother and then another on top of that, and then one more afterwards just to be safe, and maybe another--no, that’s enough. He’s been _starving_ ; she can’t let him eat too much or he’ll get sick. Even if her first instinct is to feed him up fat and healthy, she has to take it slow. 

“Earn it how?” the boy asks in a mutter as he steps up besides Song, wrapped up tight in the robe with the knife in his belt and still all weak and shaky-looking. She doesn’t say anything about that, though, just holds out two fat potatochokes and gives him a meaningful look. 

He stares at them blankly, and then at her. 

“Peel them,” she prompts. 

“. . . what _are_ they?” the boy asks, staring down at them. 

“Potatochokes,” Song says. 

“They look weird,” the boy says, still staring. “They’re _dirty_.” 

“They’re not peeled,” Song mentions helpfully. 

The boy frowns and takes one, and digs his nails into it like he’s trying to peel a satsuma-cherry. Song blinks. 

The boy’s nails dig harder into the skin, scraping ineffectually at the surface of it, and he scowls—but just with the one side of his face. Song blinks again, then just holds up the peeler. The boy gives it an uncomprehending look. 

“Haven’t you ever peeled a potatochoke before?” she asks. 

“I didn’t know you _had_ to,” he says, frowning. 

“Well, you do,” Song replies, frowning back at him in confusion. How does anyone not _know_ that? You’d have to have never _seen_ one, and who’s never seen a potatochoke? Back home everybody grew them, and even here they’re all over the marketplace and everybody eats them. She’s been peeling them for dinner since she was old enough to hold the peeler. “Like this,” she says, and shows him how. The boy watches, very closely, and takes the peeler and the next potatochoke when she offers them to him. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he stands at the table next to her and concentrates very hard as he peels. His strokes are clumsy and too short, but they’ll get the job done sooner or later so Song doesn’t see the point in correcting him. 

She would, but she thinks he’d take it the wrong way. 

So they stand side by side, and the boy peels the potatochokes like he’s never peeled anything in his _life_ and Song peels the onion-carrots herself and slices them into big chunks and the one peeled potatochoke too and then cuts up the pig-cow meat and by the time she’s done all that, the boy’s _just_ finished with peeling his first potatochoke. Song cuts it up too, and throws it all into the pot as the boy starts peeling the next one with a scowl of concentration. 

She pours in just enough water to cover the meat and vegetables, and then she stokes the heat and searches around for the little jar of dried spices and very carefully measures out two spoonfuls and then puts it back away and salts and peppers and stirs it all up and grabs an extra onion-carrot and peels and slices it too and throws it in, and the boy’s still peeling the potatochoke. Song’s a little amazed he hasn’t cut any of his fingers off yet, but even though he’s holding the peeler all wrong and _using_ the peeler all wrong he hasn’t even nicked himself. 

She guesses he’s good with sharp things. 

Song stirs up the pot again, and stirs it up a little more, and then another stir and another and another and another and she’s trying _very_ hard not to cry, keeping her face turned away from the boy, but her leg hurts and she’s sore all over from dragging him back and she’s so, _so_ tired . . . 

She sniffles, squeezing her eyes shut. The boy brings over the rest of the potatochokes, badly gouged and cut into not-quite-even pieces but peel-free, and hesitates beside her. 

“Put them in the pot,” Song murmurs, not quite looking at him, and the boy does. He drops them from too high and the water splashes up a little, but it’s barely warm yet and it’s not like it matters. 

Song does _not_ cry. 

The boy hovers awkwardly. Song stirs the pot. People survive and die and suffer and the war marches on and the Fire Nation comes closer and closer and soldiers are everywhere and there’s nowhere safe _anywhere_ and her leg _hurts_. 

Song cries. She drops down into a crouch except her bad leg gives out and she lands on her butt instead with a little whimper of pain and covers her face with her hands and tries really hard to stop herself but can’t, can’t at all, she wants her _father_ —

The boy drops down beside her and touches her arm very nervously, very _gently_ , and that just makes her cry harder. 

“M’sorry,” she manages. “I’m sorry, I’ll be—I’m fine, I’m sorry. Just—stir the stew, please.” 

“. . . okay,” the boy says, very quietly, and stands back up and does. Song stays on the floor and cries a little more, then rubs her face dry and tries to get back up. It doesn’t work very well; her leg gives out twice and she hits her knee and only doesn’t hit her head against the stove because the boy grabs her arm. He snatches his hand back quick, but not before Song gets her balance. 

He looks . . . weird for a second. 

“I’m fine,” Song says again, and without really thinking about it she pulls up her hanbok to show him her bandaged leg. “The Fire Nation—they hurt me too.” 

The boy stares at her. 

“It’s okay,” Song tells him, her eyes on the bandages. “We’ll get better.” 

“No I won’t,” the boy says. 

“I used to say that,” Song says, still not looking up from the bandages and not trying to get up again. “But it hurts less already.” 

“That’s not the part that hurts,” the boy replies dully. 

Song’s fingers curl against the floor. 

“I know,” she answers without lifting her head. 

The boy doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything back. It’s quiet for a long time, and the apartment starts to smell like stew, warm and thick and heavy in the air and delicious, but not as delicious as when Mother makes it. It’s still nice, though, so Song closes her eyes and just breathes for a while and doesn’t worry. 

“Stir,” she murmurs every now and then, and the boy does. “Thank you,” she murmurs after, every time. The boy keeps not saying anything, but she doesn’t really blame him. 

He’s trying. 

That’s better than a lot of people. 

It gets late. Or later, anyway—it was already later than Song was supposed to have been out when she found the boy, and now it’s pitch-dark outside. The lanterns burn low, but don’t quite burn out; they’re lasting longer than usual today. Mother should’ve been home by now, but she has to work so hard here. So much harder than back home, to pay for this place and the medicine Song needs and food and all these too-expensive things. And Song can’t help. 

She can help the boy, though. That’s something she can do. 

She . . . she really hopes that’s something she can do. 

They don’t have many nice things anymore. They never had a lot, but there were some—Great-Grandfather’s ink paintings, and Grandmother’s good hair ornaments and hairbrushes, and Father’s tools and Mother’s tools too and things that were just _nice_. Things that were old, and well kept, and well taken care of; things that had been in their family for a long, long time. 

There’s not much like that now. 

Really, there’s only two things like that. 

After a while, Song gets up to get one of them out of Mother’s things—Grandmother’s one hairbrush that survived the fire, wrapped up in soft cloth and taken care of through the fire and the loss of Father and the long and miserable journey here. Mother treats it as a promise, the brush; she says they’ll find a better place after this, find a home again. 

Song doesn’t really believe her, though. 

Home is Father, and everything that burned. Grandmother’s brush is just . . . something that remains. Something to hold onto. And Mother needs things to hold onto. Everyone does. Something to be strong for, to fight for, to fight _with_ —something to hold onto. 

Just any place to stand. 

“Sit down,” she says to the boy as she unwraps Grandmother’s hairbrush. “I’ll brush your hair.” 

The boy stares at her. 

“It’s ruined,” he says awkwardly. 

“It’s dirty,” Song says, setting aside the cloth carefully. “And tangled.” 

“It’s ruined,” he says again, looking into the pot as he gives it another stir. 

“Then I’ll do it while you stand,” Song says, very quietly, and steps up behind him with the brush. The boy stiffens, shoulders tensing, and steps to the side quick. 

“Don’t,” he says unevenly. Song’s fingers tremble around the handle of the brush, and then tighten. 

“Then sit down,” she says, and the boy does. He steps to the table and sits down at it and Song steps to his side and pours water into his hair to soften up the grit and blood, then starts trying to pick the knots and tangles apart. It doesn’t really work, or at least doesn’t work very well, but she keeps trying. The boy keeps still, just staring down at the table. 

It’s a lot of trying, pretty much, and not very much working. 

“It’s ruined,” the boy says again eventually, so quiet she can barely hear him. “Just cut it.” 

Song’s fingers tighten around the brush again, and she thinks _anyplace to stand._

“Not without a fight,” she says. The boy’s shoulders tense up again and his head ducks even lower, enough to make it hard to reach his hair. Song doesn’t complain. 

Mother always says it’s best to just let people cry. 

She keeps picking at the knots, and little by little they come apart. Little by _very_ little, but that’s good enough for Song. After a while she takes a break to fill a bowl for the boy, and as she does it she thinks about his bone-skinny wrists and hollow cheeks--the pinched, _hungry_ look all over him. She thinks about how he didn’t eat so much as the tiniest bit of onion-carrot or potatochoke in all the time it took to cook. 

“You have to eat slow, okay?” Song says softly as she ladles out the stew. Normally she wouldn’t give a starving patient a full bowl. They’d lose control and eat it too fast; they’d make themselves vomit. It always happens. 

She gives the boy a full bowl. 

He picks up the spoon and eats very, very slowly. 

Song watches him from the other side of the table and understands for the first time why Mother tells her all those things about maintaining a certain degree of distance from patients—why it can be so dangerous not to. 

But it’s a little late for that understanding to do her any good now. 

_I love you,_ Song thinks about someone not family for the first time in her life, watching this starving boy take small, tidy bites of probably the only thing he’s eaten in days. She eats her own smaller share much quicker, then gets up and goes back to brushing his hair. He’s still tense, but not so wary, and strand by strand the tangles fall apart, and then Song gets out the soap and lathers up his head and rinses it out. The boy doesn’t seem to care about how it drips or the way it soaks into his clothes, and she doesn’t want to keep him from eating. 

He has nice hair. It takes Song a while to realize it, but when it slides off her fingertips like wet silk thread, well, that’s hard not to notice. 

Mostly it’s kind of shocking, considering the wreck it was earlier--meaning it must’ve been even _nicer_ than this back before . . . whatever happened _(the FIRE Nation, what else EVER happens?!)._

She didn’t know _anyone_ could have hair so nice. 

The boy’s spoon clatters against the side of his bowl, and he hisses in alarm. Song’s head jerks up, but not as fast as the boy’s knife jerks out of its sheath. Mother is in the doorway, looking startled. 

The boy is tense and frozen, and Song lunges into him. It’s _gut_ , that reaction; she couldn’t have done anything else. She means to grab his arm, to hold him back and explain— _it’s alright, it’s MOTHER!—_

But her leg gives out again, and she falls on top of him instead. 

The boy yelps. 

Song blinks, very slowly. 

Mother is _there_ , grabbing her, cradling her, between her and the boy and settling her down, and Song sinks to the floor dazedly, looking down at herself. 

At the deep and bloody skid-mark of a slash blossoming open across the meat of her palm. 

It doesn’t even really hurt. 

“I’ve got you, darling, it’s alright,” Mother soothes, the trailing sash of her hanbok already balled up tight against the wound, a hard pressure against it. Song whimpers. “Bring me my bag,” Mother orders the horrified boy as he stares down at them, and he bolts to the door and drags it back, his eye wide with guilt and fear. 

“It’s not his fault,” Song manages, clinging to Mother with the hand that isn’t bleeding. “Mother, he’s hurt, he—” He’s cute even _with_ the scar, she thinks distantly, burying her face in Mother’s shoulder. “It’s not his fault.” 

“I know, darling,” Mother says, and the boy flinches. A drop of blood hits the floor. And another. And another and another and another—

Mother takes a bottle of something from her medicine bag and tips it into Song’s mouth, and then Song doesn’t think at all. 

.

.

.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says, hearing the terror in his own voice as he watches Song’s eyes grow heavy and sedative-dull, trying not to tremble—he hurt her he hurt her he _hurt_ her, she didn’t _do_ anything and he _hurt_ her—

“Hush,” Song’s mother says, brisk and professional. Not professional like the court healers are professional, though; her eyes make contact with his, and they’re gentle. 

Zuko feels sick. 

She’s _Earth Kingdom_. He’d thought—he’d thought Song was a colonist, in her pretty pink skirt and cream-colored top. Of _course_ he’d thought that; every Earth citizen he’s met has only hurt him. And they’re—they’re bad _people_ , everyone knows that. Not savages, not like the Water Tribe, but still grossly underdeveloped and lagging behind, and so jealous of the Fire Nation’s superior technology that they won’t _accept_ them as superior and insist on waging war. 

. . . except. 

Except he’s not part of the Fire Nation’s “them” anymore, is he, he’s—he’s—

Zuko feels sick. Sicker realizing that he doesn’t even have the right to think of himself by that name. By any name. He is an exile, a failure and a _coward_ , and he will carry that shame until he dies. 

He will never have honor again. 

He doesn’t deserve his name or his fire or his hair or his _anything_. 

And he hurt a girl, too. 

Zuko grabs his tangled, matted hair and his fist swings up to slice through it, and it’s only belatedly he realizes he’s dropped the knife. And his hair . . . it isn’t tangled or matted anymore, either. A little tangled, and rough-feeling like it never was before, but . . . but not like it was. 

He could keep it. 

Song gave it back to him. 

His fingers tremble. 

He looks for the knife, or would if he could tear his eyes away from the awful sight of Song’s mother stitching up the long, shallow wound in her hand, from the even more awful sight of Song’s dull eyes watching her mother pull those stitches through. That’s his fault. He did that, because he was a coward and jumped for his weapon when he didn’t need it. 

His only weapon. 

Zuko’s fingers tremble again, and he finally looks away, frightened and ashamed, and goes to the far corner and sits there. 

He wants to run. It’d be the smart thing to do, and he doesn’t have honor to compromise by retreating in shame anymore. Song’s mother will hurt him, he knows, just like every other Earth Kingdom person he’s met. 

Except Song. 

Every Earth Kingdom person except Song. 

Song is . . . Song is Earth Kingdom. 

Zuko pulls his knees to his chest and hides his face, and doesn’t care that the rough fabric of the robe Song gave him rasps painfully across his burn as he does. It _should_ be painful. It should hurt. He deserves hurt and worse, a hundred _thousand_ times worse, a million _billion_ times worse, even worse than _that_ — 

Song’s mother bandages the wound and sits Song down on the couch, and then comes close and kneels in front of Zuko. He huddles smaller into the corner, not wanting to show fear but _knowing_ that she’s about to—

“Are you still hungry?” Song’s mother asks kindly. 

Zuko stares at her. 

She gets up and gets his bowl and pours a fresh ladleful of stew into it from the pot, and then she brings it back to him. Zuko flinches, but Song’s mother just sets the bowl down on the floor and steps back. 

Zuko stares at the food this time, and tries to hold himself back from it. He doesn’t know if it’s safe this time, she could’ve put something _weird_ in it, there could be—

_Song made this,_ he remembers, and snatches the bowl up. The sides are too hot to hold like that, but that’s okay. It’s better that way. The stew’s still too hot too, but Zuko just swallows it down as fast as he can and swipes his fingers along the bottom of the bowl to get the last of it, not at all the way he ate for Song who told him to take it slow. But it’s something _not_ Song to look at, _anything_ not Song to look at. 

Except of course he can’t not look at her, curled up sleepy-eyed on the couch and looking at _him_. 

She made him _food_. Hot food, food that’s not scrounged or sour or _spoiled_ , and better than anything he’s eaten in . . . in _ever_. Zuko’s had stuffed sparrow-quail and roasted monkfish-squid and fire-flower salad and hundred year-old dragon egg, he’s had _all_ the best delicacies of the Fire Nation, every one, and none of them was ever this good. 

Even just the fire flakes Mother would bring him from the festivals were never this good. 

Song’s mother takes the empty bowl and pours in another ladle of stew. Zuko eats it just as fast as the first and then feels sick—not because of the food, because he hurt _Song_ and her mother is feeding him. Even though he hurt Song. Even though she’s _Earth Kingdom_. 

The enemy. 

She’s the enemy. 

_They’re_ the enemy. 

They’re the enemy and they’ll hurt him and they’ll make him suffer and they’ll—and they’ll—and—

Song’s mother pours another ladleful of stew into the bowl. Zuko’s hands shake, and he drops it and spills it all over himself and the floor and he doesn’t mean to cry again, it’s so _stupid_ to cry at _all_ but he does, he does and Song’s mother’s hands reach out and grip him and pull him close and _don’t_ hurt him and he cries. And cries. And cries and cries and _cries_ —

“Hush,” Song’s mother murmurs, holding him tight. “You were just scared. It was an accident. It’s alright.” 

But it’s not. Fear is _dishonorable_ , showing cowardice, weakness, showing weakness to the _enemy_ —

“Shhh,” Song’s mother soothes, and brushes the hair Song gave back to him out of the good side of his face. And Zuko remembers, again, that he has no honor. That he will never have honor again. 

That it doesn’t matter what he does, now, because there is no fixing that one thing. 

So he cries, shamefully, and holds on shamefully, and hides in the enemy’s arms shamefully, and when she pulls him to his feet and takes the soaked and dirty robe and wraps him up in a blanket he lets her and when she slathers his face in weird-smelling paste and bandages it up and finds him other clothes he wears them and when she gives him something from her medicine bag to drink he drinks it and when she puts him to bed on the futon, he goes. Song’s mother asks questions that don’t have answers, just like Song did— _what’s your name, where are your parents, where are you from_ —and he cries again and she wraps the blanket tight around him and goes and blows out the lamps. 

Zuko closes his eye and turns into the couch and pretends he’s okay. 

But he’s bad at pretending. 

He dreams of fire in a strange way, a way he never has before, but more familiarly he dreams of the tall golden doors to the throne room and the heavy red curtains that hang along its walls and sinuous red and blue serpents with long teeth and leathery wings. 

Dragons. 

He dreams of dragons, as if he still has the right to. 

The sun rises, and Zuko wakes up. He opens his eye, the one he still _can_ , and sees the morning light spill across the worn hardwood floor and sees Song asleep on the couch with her bandaged-up hand and his knife on the kitchen table and he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t _be_ here. These people are enemies of his nation, _his_ enemies. 

Except his nation isn’t his nation anymore, so how can they be his enemies? 

That doesn’t make sense. He’s Fire Nation. He’ll _always_ be Fire Nation. He was born there. 

. . . and he’s already died there. 

Prince Zuko has already died there. 

“Good morning,” Song’s mother greets kindly from the doorway, and Zuko jerks upright and stares at her. She has a very small and skinny knife, clean bandages, and her medicine bag. She comes over to the futon and kneels beside him and mixes something up out of her medicine bag and holds it for him to drink, and he does because . . . because. She gives him dried catfish-cod to eat and something else out of her medicine bag and checks his cuts and bruises and asks him what hurts, and then gets up to cook breakfast. There’s eggs and cheese and more fish and tofu and thick slices of bacon, and Zuko tries to get up to help but his head goes all woozy and she hurries him back to the futon. 

He feels sick again, useless and weak, but the food smells _so_ good when she brings it to him and it’s more food than he’s seen in _weeks_. He didn’t earn it, though, he didn’t do _anything_ to deserve it, he can’t—

“Mother?” Song mumbles sleepily, and Zuko’s heart stops at the sound of her voice. “Why’re you up so _early_ . . .?” 

“I had to run to the market,” Song’s mother says, still bustling around the kitchen, brewing tea and making more eggs—getting ready to serve Song and herself, _after_ serving him. He feels sick again. “Go wash your face, dear, and I’ll take a look at that cut.” 

“Yes, Mother,” Song murmurs, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Zuko tries not to look at her, but it doesn’t really work; instead he hunches forward over his food and eats and just watches out of the corner of his eye as Song gets up and heads to the sink, letting his hair hide his face. She wets her unbandaged hand and smoothes water over her face, and then her mother directs her over towards the futon and she sits down next to Zuko and he stiffens all the way up his spine. 

He can’t look at her. 

He _can’t_. 

“Good morning,” Song says softly, her eyes still heavy and tired but her smile genuine underneath them. “Did you sleep well?” 

Zuko nods, stupidly, and keeps his focus on his bowl. He wants to ask if _she’s_ okay, if her hand hurts, if she’s mad at him, if she wants him to go away, if—

“Good,” Song says, and muffles a yawn. Zuko’s heart stutters again. Song’s mother comes over with breakfast, and Song eats, and he eats too because a full mouth means he doesn’t have to talk. Song and her mother talk, though, quietly and about people and places Zuko doesn’t know anything about. Song’s mother asks her things like _how did you sleep_ and _what did you do yesterday_ and _what do you think about this_ , and Song answers _fine_ and _cleaned the apartment and washed the futon and took Mei Wan and Bai and the Akaba family their medicines_ and _I don’t think that’s a good idea_ , and Song’s mother listens to it all very patiently and then answers like she really _was_ listening. 

Zuko stares into his bowl. 

Zuko stares into his bowl for a long, long time. 

Song finishes eating, and Song’s mother finishes eating, and Song and Song’s mother clean up and wash the dishes and unpack Song’s mother’s medicine bag and Zuko stares into his bowl. And stares, and stares, and stares—

Song sits down beside him. Song’s mother kneels in front of him, and takes his empty bowl away. 

“Lift your head, please,” she says, her fingers ghosting lightly against the bottom of his chin. Zuko flinches reflexively, but follows the gesture and ends up looking straight at her as she unravels the bandage over his eye. His gaze flicks away fast, and accidentally lands on Song. 

He doesn’t like the look on her face. It’s very . . . 

It’s very _sad_. 

And then she grabs his hand and he stiffens in shock and doesn’t underst—

Song’s mother peels the last layer of the bandages away, and skin comes with them. Zuko _shrieks_ , and Song grabs his hand harder, white-knuckle tight, and he holds on just as hard— _twice_ as hard, maybe, but Song doesn’t complain. She presses up tight against his side, tightens her grip even more, and her mother touches the burn and Zuko _cringes_ and his eyes burn. 

Song’s mother smiles at him, and her sharp knife comes up and slashes at his face. Zuko yelps and jerks back at the dull feeling of impact across his eye, and she catches his wrist before he can clap a hand over it. 

“Ah,” Zuko says. Song’s mother touches his jaw and turns his face to look at the burn, and Zuko cringes again. 

It’s too _bright_. 

. . . it’s bright. 

“You’re lucky. It was just scabbed shut,” Song’s mother says, touching his eye very carefully. Zuko’s eyelids flicker rapidly, painfully, and his eye aches and tears slip down his face. “It doesn’t _look_ damaged . . . can you see at all?” 

“Yes,” Zuko rasps, blinking rapidly, and more tears slide down his face. His left eye is trying to focus, his left eye is _working_ , he can _see_ —

Song’s fingers lace through his, and he tears away from her mother’s so-gentle touch and buries the unburned side of his face against Song’s shoulder. She holds on very, very hard, and he wishes she’d do it harder. Song’s mother reaches over, rubs something slick over the burn, and then moves over and starts to unwind the bandage around Song’s leg. 

Zuko blinks, very slowly. Song’s mother unwinds the second-to-last layer of bandages. Without thinking, he grabs both of Song’s hands and squeezes them just as tight as she squeezed his. 

Her mother unwinds the last layer, and skin comes away. Song grimaces very, very faintly and squeezes his hands in return. She doesn’t cry, but she bites her lip like she wants to and her eyes blink a little too fast, and they sit pressed so close against each other Zuko can’t feel anything but her against his side. 

He’s never held anyone like this before. 

. . . he’s never _held_ anyone before. 

Song’s mother finishes taking care of her leg, and Song and Zuko stay pressed close together the whole time. Song bites her lip harder and Zuko breathes with her and they squeeze each others’ hands harder and they are one human being, just for that second, feeling the same pain in the same way. 

Just for that second, he thinks, _this is what understanding someone is like._

Song’s mother leaves both their burns uncovered to let them breathe and checks on Song’s hand and then cleans up the last of breakfast, and Song and Zuko keep sitting together, sides still pressed so close and leaning full into each other. 

She’s nice. Song’s nice. 

Song’s a nice person. Song’s a _good_ person. Even if she’s Earth Kingdom, she’s a good person. It doesn’t make sense, except it’s true. 

And Zuko . . . Zuko’s not Fire anymore. Won’t ever be Fire again. 

He closes his eyes— _both_ of his eyes—and he and Song stay like that, and that’s nice too. And that’s . . . that’s weird, because it’s been a long time since anything was nice like that. Or nice at all. Or . . . anything. 

It’s been a long time. Even longer than it’s been since he stopped being Fire. 

Song’s mother goes around the apartment. She cleans it up, and then she uncovers clothes from her medicine bag and sets them beside Zuko—green clothes, worn and made of rough-looking fabric, but so much nicer than the shapeless and sagging brown rags that they gave him on the ship, when they stripped him of everything Fire that he had left. 

But still green. 

His painting tutor told him green was the opposite of red. His painting tutor also told him that opposite colors look good together, but he didn’t have that tutor for very long. So red and green are opposite colors and opposite colors look good together and Song is green but Zuko is not red anymore. Zuko is not any color anymore. Zuko is just . . . nothing. Undyed cloth, unpainted canvas, _nothing_. 

Zuko is holding Song, and is being held by Song. 

Song’s mother says something Zuko doesn’t really listen to, and Song says something back quietly, and then Song’s mother leaves the apartment. Zuko doesn’t want to move and Song doesn’t seem to either, so they don’t. They just stay very close on the futon and don’t go anywhere. 

And the clothes Song’s mother left him are green. Light green and dark green, with brown slippers. Earth Kingdom clothes. Very, _very_ Earth Kingdom clothes. 

He doesn’t know if he can wear them. They’ll seep into him, those clothes. The greens, the browns—they’d sink in, they’d _penetrate_ , and they’d never, ever wash out. 

He’s undyed. He’s nothing. 

If he puts those clothes on . . . 

Song sits up, finally. She rubs at her eyes. She looks tired, and sad, and hurting. 

“Does it hurt?” she says. Zuko looks at the clothes. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“Okay,” she says, and pushes herself up off the futon and looks around like she’s looking for something to do. Except there’s nothing, because her mother already did it all, so instead she just stands there and Zuko . . . Zuko feels like he should do something. Give her something. 

_Be_ something. 

He doesn’t even know what he _can_ be for a hurting girl. A girl he hurt too. A girl who . . . a girl his nation hurt. Who one of his _people_ hurt. 

He is . . . he was . . . 

He was supposed to be the Fire Lord. He is royalty and he was _supposed_ to be the Fire Lord and that makes _all_ his people his responsibility and the same way they have to respect and care for their people they are also culpable for the sins _of_ their people, and they cannot ignore or brush away or pretend not to know or—

Except they’re not his people anymore. They don’t _want_ him to fight for or apologize for them anymore. Who would want a coward without honor to stand up and claim them? 

“I want to call you something,” Song says quietly, not looking at him, and Zuko’s throat closes up. He swallows, tensing, and looks away too. 

“Okay,” he says distantly. It’s not dishonorable if Song _knows_ it’s not his name, he tells himself. 

_(it’s not dishonorable if he has no honor.)_

“I can make something up,” Song tells him. “Or you can.” 

“I don’t want to,” Zuko murmurs, looking at the clothes. Song reaches for them and unfolds them. They’re a light green shirt and loose dark green pants cut in a style he doesn’t recognize—an Earth Kingdom style, obviously, but Zuko doesn’t know what it’s called, or if it’s even called anything at all. Do Earth people name their clothing styles? 

It looks like the same style as Song’s cream-colored top, and her pretty pink skirt. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Song says softly, looking at the shirt in her hands. “Will it hurt you?” 

“Yes,” Zuko replies reflexively. 

“Will it hurt you worse than not being called anything at all?” she asks. 

Zuko stills, and then looks at her. Song’s face is very sad, and very serious, and his mouth goes dry at the sight of it. 

“I don’t know,” he manages after a long moment, still looking at her. Unable to _not_ look at her. 

“Okay,” Song says, holding out the shirt to him. Zuko takes it; it seems like the only thing to do. Song turns away, looking at nothing, and he dresses. 

. . . and then he realizes he’s dressed. 

He looks down at himself in Earth Kingdom green and feels dazed. Empty. Blank. Empty and blank, and with something all-wrong poured in. 

He’s already at the sink before he even realizes he’s going to vomit, and he’s thrown up probably everything he’s eaten in the past two days before he realizes Song is against his side, touching his back and holding his hair back out of his face. 

It doesn’t make sense. She’s Earth. He’s Fire. They should be _enemies_. They should _hate_ each other. They should be trying to tear each other _apart_. 

She should not be holding him while he suffers. 

Tears and snot and saliva and bile all drip down his face, and Song wipes it all away with a swathe of clean bandage. Her touch is gentle, as gentle as her mother’s _(as gentle as HIS mother’s)_ , but firm and strong. Not afraid. And somehow not painful, either, even when it ghosts close across the burn. That doesn’t make sense, considering even naked _air_ is painful against the burn, but Zuko doesn’t question it. Song is kind, and Song holds him when he suffers. 

Song wants him to hold her while _she_ suffers. 

That’s . . . 

No one’s ever wanted him to do something like that before. No one ever thought he was _worth_ something like that before. Or worth much of anything at all. 

And she’s nice. 

Zuko gags again, all dry heave and bile. Song keeps holding him. It’s not like the futon was, but it’s not . . . it’s not bad. 

He doesn’t hate it. 

And it doesn’t feel like being with the enemy. 

Song sits him down, and eventually he stops shaking. She cleans his face and smoothes his hair back and sits with him, holds him, and the comfort of it numbs him. Zuko’s never been comforted like this; he feels like he’s not very good at it. Song doesn’t seem to care, though. 

There’s so much that means he should run away right now. Right this moment. Right _forever_. He should leave and he should never, never come back. 

“Better?” Song asks quietly, and Zuko nods in silence, and _knows_ he won’t leave. Not until they’re done with him. 

It won’t be long until they are anyway. 

“Okay,” Song says for about the umpteenth time, and Zuko closes his eyes and just . . . _breathes_. Something about the way she says that word makes it sound like it could really happen—that anything could be okay. That _life_ could be okay. 

It can’t, he knows—it _never_ can—but the way she says it, he could almost believe. 

“Okay,” he repeats quietly, looking back to her and trying to make the word sound the same. It won’t, but he can’t keep himself from trying, and Song smiles at him when he says it. 

It’s worth it, that way. 

And it’s not lying, either, he tells himself as he closes his eyes again, as he breathes in slow and holds himself together. It’s a . . . it’s something else. 

What is it, if it’s not lying? 

“Dao,” Song says. 

“What?” Zuko asks blankly, looking at her again. Song bites her lip, then reaches out and takes his sheathed knife off the kitchen table and taps the hilt against his chest. 

“Dao,” she says again, very serious and very quiet. “Your name.” 

Zuko blinks, and stares down at the knife, and thinks of matched swords left far, far behind. 

“Oh,” he says. Song drops her hands into her lap and the knife with them, and without thinking, Zuko reaches for it. Somehow he ends up holding her hand more than the knife. Song turns pink and ducks her head, and Zuko, well . . . he just exists, for a moment. 

And it doesn’t even hurt to. 

It won’t last, he reminds himself. It’s not safe here. He’s not _wanted_ here. It’s not—

Song squeezes his hand, and Dao forgets what he was thinking.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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